by Bobby Akart
Handsome Dan was the most vocal in his response, immediately attempting to jump as high as his eight-inch legs could hoist his oversized girth of a waistline. The key fob was the target of his excitement, as the big boy couldn’t care less about Suburbans.
“Too excited for words,” said Hannah as she threw a pillow at her father. She enjoyed the slumber-party atmosphere of the night’s stay in the hotel. She’d never slept on a pull-out sofa bed and enjoyed creating a wall of cushions and excess pillows to build a lean-to structure on top. She’d said it was her way of getting ready to sleep in the woods.
Meredith didn’t respond, reacting instead by pointing toward the local news she was watching on the television. Cort slipped the fob in his pocket, much to the chagrin of Handsome, who immediately found his way to the tile-floored foyer to stay cool.
“Is this about the fire?” Cort said as he slid onto the edge of the bed next to his wife. She had the volume turned down with the closed-captioning scrolling across the bottom, Cort suspected it was because she didn’t want their young daughter to hear all the gory details that the news media liked to relay.
“That’s part of it,” she replied with a sigh. “They have no idea what started the fires, and there was no discernible pattern to the targets. They were clearly arson, with the locations ranging from high-end homes to government buildings. The media is calling it the Night of Rage.”
Cort took the remote from his wife and turned up the volume slightly. “Why?”
“Apparently, mobs were seen in the vicinity of all the fires before they were set. Last night, around ten o’clock, groups started congregating in different parts of the city. Cort, it wasn’t just inner-city violence, either. I mean, the homes that were set on fire were big McMansions. Even their historic district was hit.”
“The graphic reads coordinated.”
“Right,” added Meredith. “Their newly appointed fire chief said the fires were set in a way that prevented his department from responding to all of them. As he put it, he had to play God with the Lord’s water.”
“What did he do?” asked Cort.
Meredith grimaced as she replied, “He protected homes first and businesses only if he had the resources. Makes sense to me, but not to the business owners, many of whom were minorities, apparently. They’re crying racism.”
“That’s the chief in the picture,” said Cort, pointing to the split screen. “Um, he’s black.”
Meredith shrugged, and her eyebrows rose. “I guess that didn’t matter.”
The two watched the news a little longer until the coverage shifted to the mug shots of several white men whose faces were covered in tattoos. Cort shook his head in disbelief at the men’s appearance and turned the volume up louder. The reporter explained.
“The Ghost Face Gangsters are a prison-based gang that has been operating in Georgia for twenty years until their recent expansion into other large Southern cities. In the last three weeks, several incidents have been attributed to suspected members of the gang, including a deadly jailbreak in nearby Gaston County that left two corrections officers dead.
“According to the Anti-Defamation League, they are one of dozens of white supremacist prison gangs operating in the greater Mecklenburg County area. The three escaped men shown on the screen are on the lam and considered considerably dangerous.”
The station’s news host asked the reporter, “We’ve received reports that the Ghost Face Gangsters may have been involved in last night’s Night of Rage, is that correct?”
The reporter nodded and his facial expression turned serious. “That’s right. Police sources tell us there has been a turf war brewing between the Ghost Face gang and the Trinitarios, a New York-based gang composed primarily of Dominican Americans. Like the Ghost Face Gangsters, the Trinitarios members rose out of the penal system, this time in New York State. Their numbers have swelled over the past decade and so have their areas of influence. Their territory now includes Charlotte.”
Cort turned off the television and tossed the remote over his shoulder, where it landed squarely on top of a pillow, emulating a trick basketball shot he’d perfected as a teen in which he’d shoot the ball blindly over his shoulder, finding the hoop every time.
“I have an idea,” he said with a chuckle. “Why don’t we load up and get the heck out of Charlotte?”
Meredith leaned over and hugged her husband while she gave him a long kiss on the cheek. “I really love you, Cort.”
“That’s a good thing, Mrs. Cortland. Our daughter, who’s watching our every move, probably appreciates that.”
“No, I mean it. The Haven, and your ability to overcome your fears to get us there, takes a tremendous amount of courage. I love you for that.”
Cort genuinely blushed and smiled. “Aw, shucks, ma’am. ’Tweren’t nothin’.”
“Yes, Cort it was. I woke up several times last night as you fought through the nightmares. You were knocked out by the Zoloft, so you probably don’t remember. There were several times that you began kicking and flailing about. The moans were what saddened me the most. It was heart-wrenching.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. I had no—well, um, I don’t remember the dreams from last night, but the night before. Those were awful.”
She hugged him again and stood, using her arms to help Cort up. “We’ll get through this together, as soon as we’re safe at the Haven.”
“Sounds good,” said Cort as he reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small single-page map of the area surrounding the airport. “I picked this up at the front desk. If we head out this back way through Pinecrest, we can stop at Walmart and pick some things up for the cabin.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Meredith. “Once we get there, I’d like to stay put until all of this mess blows over.”
The Cortlands quickly gathered their things, coaxed Handsome off the floor, and made their way to the rental car to start the final leg of their journey.
Chapter 11
Delta’s Cabin
The Haven
Will Hightower was having difficulty transitioning to his role as Delta, one of the lead security personnel at the Haven. When he signed on with Ryan and Blair, he’d assumed he’d be flying solo. He was estranged from his ex-wife, who’d done little to rehabilitate his image as a father in the eyes of their kids. If anything, she’d torn him down further as it related to his fifteen-year-old son, Ethan.
Skylar, however, was a different matter. She had been somewhat shielded from the media circus inflicted upon the Hightower family two years prior, and for whatever reason, she hadn’t succumbed to the onslaught of negativity directed at Will. She was still a daddy’s girl and probably would remain so as long as Will didn’t screw it up.
This was their second full day at the Haven, and routines were being established for the single dad. He awoke early to prepare breakfast for his kids. He dressed in his uniform that now consisted of a full military kit that held his sidearm, extra magazines for both the pistol and the AR-15 he carried, as well as a radio. He stopped once to check himself in the mirror before he gave final instructions to the kids. He looked more like Rambo than the former uniformed security guard for a stadium, his job of just three days ago.
“Okay, here’s the plan for today,” Delta began, trying to be upbeat. He sensed his kids were bored with this new arrangement, and he wasn’t ready to explain to them how bad it really was beyond their secured perimeter, because he wasn’t totally sure himself. This was one of the items on his agenda during today’s morning briefing. “I’ve got my meeting and then I’ll be making rounds. I plan on seeing you guys back here at noon for lunch. Cool?”
“That’ll be cool, Daddy,” replied Skylar enthusiastically. “I’ve got my paintings, and Miss Blair has commissioned some artwork.”
“Whoa!” exclaimed Delta. He was impressed with his daughter’s big-girl speak. “She commissioned some artwork? What are you supposed to do?”
Skylar proudly sat u
p in her chair as she finished off another scoop of oatmeal mixed with a cinnamon-sugar blend. “I’d asked her about things kids could do around here. Miss Blair said we were all living a simpler life now and that wasn’t such a bad thing. She talked about the tire swing we have in front. That tire has been here since before the Hunger Games movie. She said she wouldn’t be surprised if Katniss played on that swing.”
Delta began laughing at the sincerity of Skylar’s statements. He loved her innocence. Delta glanced over at Ethan, who continued to shovel oatmeal into his mouth in an effort to avoid interacting with the rest of the family.
“Sky, does she want a painting of the swing?” asked Delta.
“Yes. The cabin, too. She said this was one of her favorite spots when they bought the place. I promised her a beautiful painting for her wall.”
“I’ll bet you do a fantastic job.” Delta leaned over and kissed his daughter on the forehead. He turned his attention to Ethan. “Son, you’ll stay here with your sister, right?”
Ethan didn’t look up from his bowl. He toyed with a clump of oatmeal and nodded his head. Will had hoped the change of scenery and a new adventure might bring Ethan around. He was beginning to wonder whether his son’s attitude was normal for fifteen-year-old boys. He tried to remember what he was like at that age. Although he couldn’t conjure up any specific memories, he certainly didn’t remember being perpetually sullen and ill-tempered.
“Right, Ethan?” he reiterated his request.
“Sure, Dad, whatever. Are you gonna find me a charger for my phone today?”
“Top of my list, son.” The lies continued. Delta walked over to muss his son’s hair, but Ethan just pulled away. The attempt to make some kind of contact with his son failed, again. “Okay, I love you guys. Be good, and I’ll be back for lunch.”
“Okay, Daddy. Love you!”
Ethan didn’t reply. He stood and took his empty bowl into the kitchen without saying goodbye. Delta grabbed his gear and left, pulling the door tight behind him.
Skylar began to gather her sketching materials and headed toward the door.
Ethan interrupted her. “Where are you going?”
“Um, in the front yard to sketch the house and tire swing. I’ll paint it inside because it’s too cold out.”
“Hang on.” Ethan stopped her. He sat on the sofa and motioned for Skylar to join him. Although she was anxious to get started on her project, she reluctantly joined him.
“Okay,” she said hesitantly as she set her materials down and plopped down on the slip-covered sofa.
Ethan began. “What do you think about Mom? I mean, do you think she’s back from her cruise and home safe, or what?”
“I dunno. Daddy said he’d try to call her.”
“Do you think he is?”
Skylar hesitated, indicating she wasn’t so sure. “Um, I guess so. I mean, he said he would.”
Ethan had a quick comeback. “He also said he would find me a charger for my cell phone, and he hasn’t so far.”
Skylar was growing uncomfortable with the conversation. She didn’t like it when her mother criticized her dad, and she didn’t like it when Ethan did either. She began to stand and leave when Ethan gently touched her arm and pulled her back down.
“Ethan, I don’t know. What’s the big deal. Mom’s probably safe at home with Freddie, or they’re still on the cruise ship. Either way, I’m happy here with Daddy.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. “You mean you’re not bored out of your mind?”
“We just got here,” she replied. “I haven’t had time to get bored yet. Besides, Miss Blair has given me a job, and Daddy said there would be other things for us to do.”
“Like what?” asked Ethan.
“I don’t know, but he’ll tell us when it’s time.”
Ethan stood and walked around the room. “Well, I don’t think he has any intention of talking to Mom. He sure isn’t gonna go get her.”
“Yes, he will,” Skylar shot back.
“No, Sky, he won’t. They hate each other, and Dad has everything he wants now. We’re here with him, and Mom is out there somewhere, probably in trouble.”
“You don’t know that!” Skylar was becoming afraid for her mother now. “Besides, living with Dad isn’t so bad. You’ll see.”
“Whatever,” Ethan grumbled. He wasn’t hearing what he wanted to from Skylar, so he rudely dismissed her. “Go on, do your painting or whatever. I’m gonna play with my new Nintendo until the batteries die. Then we’ll see how long it takes Dad to get me more batteries.”
Ethan angrily swiped the handheld Nintendo device off the coffee table and stormed off to their bedroom. Skylar sat on the sofa for a moment, staring at the fire through the small glass opening on the wood-burning stove.
She contemplated the fate of her mother and what her father’s true intentions were. At eleven, she knew she had little, if any, control over what her parents decided. She was still of the opinion to go with the flow because they knew what was best for her.
There was one thing she vowed, however, as she considered the circumstances her family was in. She’d never grow up to be like her brother.
Chapter 12
West Clay Street
Richmond, Virginia
Joseph Jose Acuff was also known as Chepe, a Spanish name of endearment bestowed upon him as a boy because of his cherublike face. Chepe, however, was anything but a cherub. He had a master’s in public administration from Cal-Berkley and was well respected as an advocate for reforming payday loan practices. He was widely recognized as he walked the halls of Congress, running in the same circles as congressional aides and those who had the ears of powerful politicians in DC.
Chepe led a second life, however, one that was unknown to the politicians whom he lobbied. He was a radical communist and Antifa leader who advocated the violent overthrow of the U.S. government. His platform on social media was one of the most widely followed by anarchists around the world.
As far as Chepe was concerned, nothing was off-limits. Regime change, murder of the rich and powerful, and harassment of public officials and media personalities were just some of the things on his bucket list. He was a student of Saul Alinsky’s Rules for Radicals, a manifesto authored for communist activists on how to run a movement for change.
Encouraging charismatic leaders like Chepe, Alinsky provided simple guidance on how to organize low-income communities, the proverbial have-nots, into a powerful voice. Many grassroots political movements over the past fifty years could be attributed to the techniques suggested in Rules for Radicals.
Chepe was on Jonathan Schwartz’s payroll. He’d been recruited while attending graduate school in Berkley after making headlines for leading protests against conservative commentators on the Cal-Berkley campus. Once on the radar of the FBI because of his ties to radical leftist organizations, Chepe was instructed to avoid the limelight and public displays of protest. He was turned into an insider, one who knew his way around Washington, while still being able to recruit operatives for Antifa.
Chepe excelled in his role and had become a rising star in the shadow organizations controlled by Schwartz. The events of New Year’s Eve triggered the chaotic scenario he’d been waiting for. His dream was to take advantage of government dysfunction during which the rule of law could not be enforced.
He was a cerebral radical, oftentimes engaging in elaborate conversations with his contemporaries about the impact Saul Alinsky had on the American political landscape. His favorite of Alinsky’s rules, rule number nine, posited the threat is usually more terrifying than the thing itself.
For decades, political change in America was effectuated by scaring people via the media until laws were passed to meet a certain ideological goal. Chepe’s job was to create the news headlines at the most opportune moment to benefit his political allies in Washington. The opportunity to back up those threats with real violence was a dream that Chepe thought would never materialize, until now.
/> He’d been tasked with setting Richmond on fire, literally. His teams worked throughout Richmond to occupy first responders with widespread arson fires. While the fires raged, the members of his teams raged as well, smashing windows, destroying businesses, terrorizing and killing innocent homeowners while law enforcement officers chased ghosts.
He’d been so successful on the night of January first that his boss, under direct orders from Jonathan Schwartz, instructed Chepe to pick a handful of his top people and travel to Charlotte. Just as General William Tecumseh Sherman had carved a wide swath of death and destruction through the South in the final year of the Civil War, Chepe, one of Antifa’s top field generals, would do the same. From Richmond to Charlotte to Atlanta and beyond, he’d lead an army of have-nots on a fiery display of terror.
He was preparing to leave when a box truck arrived in front of the properties owned by the Schwartz foundation that acted as a rally point for the Richmond operation. Chepe wasn’t expecting any type of delivery, especially since the normal signage or tee shirts weren’t being used during the activities undertaken around Richmond. He stopped packing his duffle bags and peeked through the curtains of his upstairs apartment.
Two burly men dressed in black with gray beanie caps made their way to the front door. Most likely, based on Chepe’s past dealings with his benefactors, the drivers were longshoremen from New Jersey. They nervously looked around before knocking.
Chepe bounded down the stairs to greet them. He opened the door. “Gentlemen.”
The driver spoke up. “We have a delivery for Sabokitty.”
Chepe smiled and took an envelope from the driver. He opened it and began reading the typewritten delivery notice. He glanced past the men toward the box truck. A vehicle trailer was attached to the truck’s hitch with a small Nissan pickup in tow. He shook his head in disbelief.
